Bear of a Honeymoon Page 9

  I didn't know the answer to that one either. But as I climbed under the covers and moulded myself to Matt's sleeping form, a surge of determination filled my soul.

  Chapter Ten

  A rim of morning sunlight haloed the window blinds when Matt's kiss brought me to life. "Where did you disappear to last night?" he enquired between nibbles at my ear.

  "How did you know I was gone?" I countered, turning to see his face. "It must have come to you in a dream."

  "More like a nightmare. I came looking for you," he said, with a meaningful leer, "and found myself sharing a bed with nothing but a pair of purring felines. You had me worried."

  "Right. So worried you conked out again before I even got back." Matt looked sheepish. "Fine. I'm a cad. Now are you going to tell me where you went?"

  I gave him the Reader's Digest version of the night's events, concluding with the pain of being treated like an unwelcome stranger by a long-time friend, and my growing concern about her daughter.

  "Matt, are we going to wind up like that? Squabbling over money, full of accusations and recrimination, our child feeling lost and confused?"

  "We don't have to," he said, gently tracing the line of my shoulder. "Our life together will be whatever we choose to make of it." He paused for a thoughtful moment. When he continued, his tone had acquired a playful note. "One thing I know for sure, though," a grin tugged at the corners of his delectable lips. "We'll never have to worry about a lonely child—unless we hurry up and make one."

  There was no arguing that logic. And who would want to anyway? I was becoming very fond of our emerging morning routine, though the part where I had to practically Shanghai my partner to the dining room was getting a bit tired. I'm one of those people who has to eat, regularly, and fairly copiously. Fortunately, as long as I get a reasonable amount of exercise, there's no problem with my weight. And, with Matt around, exercise didn't seem to be a problem.

  We'd finally made it to the point of dressing for breakfast, tossing around ideas on what to do with our day as I prodded Rip-van-spouse into action. Only one decision had been reached—to defer decision-making until after coffee—when there was a brief tap at the door. Matt opened it. Brooke stood before him. She spoke without greeting or preamble.

  "The travel agents are leaving this morning," she said to Matt's left shoulder. "If you pack your bags and leave them by the door, Shane will move them to your cabin. It will be ready by noon. You can pick up the key at the desk." Then, without inviting or waiting for comment, my former friend turned on her heel and walked briskly away.

  I felt the wind drain from my sails, leaving me to drift, aimless on a glassy sea. Matt knew the signs and folded me into his arms. It was warm there, a safe and cosy harbour. "It's not you, Taylor. She's not mad at you. More likely embarrassed. Her whole world's in an uproar and she doesn't know what to do."

  It was ironic how closely Matt's attempt at comfort mirrored my own words to Claire only a few hours before. I wondered if mine had fallen as far short of the mark. Still, my goddaughter had managed a brave face. I owed my husband nothing less.

  "You're right," I said briskly, freeing myself with a parting peck on the cheek. "Brooke's made her position clear, and it's up to me to accept. Let's eat."

  Most of the breakfast crowd had already vacated by the time we reached the dining room. A big tour coach was parked at the front entrance with piles of luggage sprouting by its side. The travel agents appeared eager to depart. But the Fisks still occupied a table by the window and they hailed us from across the room.

  "Heard you two were in on the excitement up at the stable," Art remarked once we were settled with coffee in hand and our orders under way.

  "I'll say," I replied, shuddering at the memory of the limp-bodied snake. "Darn lucky Denise Pardue was there."

  "I should say so," Belle declared with feeling. She continued in a confidential tone, leaning forward as she spoke. "It's not nice to say, but I'm afraid that girl just rubs me the wrong way. Good thing she has some redeeming quality."

  "You ask me, she's a pain in the butt," Art said, making no effort to lower his voice. "The woman's a born trouble maker."

  Matt's blue eyes twinkled. "Maybe. But she's also one very cool customer. Faced with a terrified kid, a horse in a panic, and an ornery snake rattling its tail off, she waded in like a platoon of marines. I'm not crazy about her either, but she sure has earned my respect."

  "Along with Dan and Lyle's heart-felt gratitude," I added.

  "That's true, my dear. What a terrible blow it would have been if

  the horse had died." Belle tut-tutted. "Why would anyone do such a thing?"

  We pondered that one in silence as a college-aged server named Jasmine, with Asian features and a ready smile, laid out cutlery and topped up coffee.

  "Maybe a grudge," Art offered, his normally affable features pinched in a speculative frown. "An ex-employee or something."

  "I don't think there are any ex-employees, dear. Dan and Brooke are so well-liked, the staff stays on and on. Even the summer help. Look at Jasmine. I think this is her third year."

  "That's true. The bartender's the only newcomer this season— except for that surly-faced kid. What's his name?"

  "Shane. And he has better reason than most to be grateful to Dan." I marvelled at Belle's intelligence gathering. She obviously knew a great deal about the business of Bear Lake Lodge. Our breakfast arrived, a towering stack of pancakes for me and the two-egg special for my man. Art and Belle continued to carry the conversation as we tied in.

  "Could be nothing to do with the lodge," Art suggested. "Could be somebody after Lyle."

  Tossing that one around produced nothing useful. Apparently, Belle's network didn't extend far enough to learn more than the bare facts of Lyle's existence.

  "Then what about that Max Edelman fellow," she said with some exasperation. "Something's definitely not right there."

  My ears perked up. Wasn't he the smooth-looking character who had sent Brooke over the edge the afternoon we arrived? I demanded particulars.

  "Slimy guy," was all Art had to offer.

  His wife agreed. "In the resort business, too, I understand. He flies himself around in that lovely little seaplane moored on the lake. A bit of a rake if you ask me. Young Rachel at reception seems quite taken in."

  I reflected on "young Rachel" who didn't much strike me as the type to be taken in. If she'd attached herself to Edelman, I was willing to bet there was a reason. But that was just my gut talking. I kept the thought to myself and pursued another.

  "We heard this guy spouting off at reception the day we arrived. It sounded like he stays here a lot."

  "Oh, I think so," Belle confirmed. "Apparently he's been trying to buy the place. Something about creating a destination complex—onsite golf and skiing, condos, timeshares—a year-round operation."

  Here was an interesting angle. If Brooke and Dan were in the kind of financial trouble I suspected, Max Edelman could be the man of their dreams. Then why had my friend treated him like the Black Death? I didn't know and I wasn't going to find out from Belle. Not at this sitting, anyway.

  Griff Moody had just appeared at the entrance and Matt was enthusiastically waving him toward our table. I understood. It must have been a good twelve or fourteen hours since they'd been able to talk cameras. Matt rose to greet his new friend.

  "Let me pull a chair over for you," he said as everybody said their good mornings.

  "Don't bother, Matt," Art said, pushing his own chair back. "Griff can sit here. Belle and I tee off at eleven. We're playing Quail Run today."

  "It's my favourite course," Belle gushed, rising to join her husband.

  "You don't see many quail, but there are hundreds of marmots. It's very good for accuracy, aiming to avoid hitting any. Why don't you join us one day?"

  We agreed that was an excellent idea and the Fisks hurried off. I wasn't too sure about the marmots, though. As a rank novice, my aim was definitely
questionable and it would break my heart to hit one of the furry little guys. But Matt was an avid player and I thought I might try to improve enough to make golf something for us to share. On the other hand, seeing him with Griff, it occurred to me that getting serious about photography might be a better plan.

  Although he was master of camera and lens, Matt had never done any wildlife photography and he was eager to learn from an expert. I admit to tuning out while the guys talked technical details. Shutter speeds and focal lengths are way over my head. I'm pretty much a point and shoot kind o' gal. But when they got around to the fieldwork, how to track an animal in the bush, I was all ears. Quietly retrieving my notebook from my bag, I started recording what Griff had to say.

  Bears were his specialty and he talked with quiet authority. "You've got to do your homework," he was saying. "If you're not familiar with the area, data from government maps and forestry plans is a big help. They show tree types and cutovers. Bears love cutovers, especially if they've grown up to aspen. In spring, they graze 'em, almost like hoofed animals."

  The former hunter waved a weathered hand and Jasmine hurried over with more coffee. "Just keep toppin' her up, my girl," he said, treating the obliging waitress to his hearty grin.

  "Yes sir," she replied, her own smile bright, but shy. "Anyone else?" "Maybe a drop," Matt agreed.

  I covered my mug with my hand. The first half-dozen refills had been enough for me. "You find the places bears are likely to be, then go looking for them?" I asked, when Jasmine had gone, keen to steer him back to the subject.

  "That's how real sportsmen do it."

  "What do you mean, real sportsmen?" Matt asked. His head was cocked to one side in a gesture I'd come to associate with intense interest.

  "Well, Matt, you've got to understand that bear hunting's mostly about knowing where the critter's gonna be. And there's only two ways of knowing. Real sportsmen use research. Guys who just want to bag a kill use bait." From his tone, it was obvious what Griff Moody thought of that.

  "See, bears are creatures of habit. They use the same trails and feeding sites over and over. That's why those garbage bears Tovey was talking about yesterday keep coming back. Bait hunters know this and use it to their advantage. By setting up a bait station, and keeping it stocked, they can ensure a good supply of animals."

  "What do they use for bait?" I asked, seeking more details for my notes.

  "Different things. One guy I know used oats and Kentucky Fried Chicken oil. But most use meat, forty-five gallon drums stuffed with rotting meat."

  "Doesn't sound very sporting," Matt said.

  "It's not. Like shooting chickadees off a bird feeder. Fortunately, in most places, it's not legal anymore."

  "But other forms of hunting still are," I clarified.

  "Sure. Hunting helps manage numbers. In nature, everything's a matter of cause and effect." Griff noticed my frown. "Let me give you an example. Back in the 1960s American alligators were put on the endangered species list and all hunting stopped. Within a decade, the 'gators had rebounded to the point where there were starting to be reports of attacks on family pets and a limited hunt was reinstated. Today, there are nearly two million alligators in Florida—and you must have heard about the deadly attacks on small children."

  I nodded. Who could forget that horror story from Disney World? "Hunting is still regulated," Griff continued, "but there you go. It's necessary to keep the numbers in check."

  "I didn't know about the alligators," I said. "But I've done a lot of research on elephant populations. I know a fair bit about the argument for culling in areas where the numbers have rebounded so dramatically the herds have become a problem."

  "Then you understand," said Griff. "Most people assume it's best to let nature take its course, without human intervention." He shook his head. "But it's too late for that. Humans have been intervening too long. Whether we impose total bans or just regulate hunting, in many cases, it's now a part of the natural cycle. Take it away and you destroy the balance. Besides, hunting's not the biggest threat to wildlife. Liam said it yesterday. Habitat loss is your real killer. If you want to save animals, talk to developers, not hunters."

  "Yet, you've given up hunting yourself," I said.

  "That's true," Griff replied thoughtfully. "It took me a lot of years to realise that what I really enjoyed was being outdoors, learning about the animals and their ways, tracking them, seeing them. For me the thrill was never the trophy. And then again, times have changed," he grinned. "When I was young, it would have been pretty sissy to go out looking for bears with a camera."

  Matt laughed. "I guess. But it's fine these days, and I'd sure like to give it a try."

  The guys agreed that a practical lesson in wildlife photography was the logical next step. Since Griff had some errands to run in town, they set a date for later in the week. When he left, we realised there was still time to spare before we could move into our cabin. Matt wanted to visit the stable and see how Reno was doing. But all morning, I'd been wrestling an uneasy feeling about the situation with Brooke and wanted to get it resolved. Under the thin guise of needing to consult her about Nell, I suggested we separate for an hour and rendezvous for lunch. Obligingly, my husband kissed the top of my head and strode off.

  A quick check at the front desk led me to the tour coach parked out front. I waited while Brooke bid farewell to the last of the boarding passengers and waved them on their way. Her professional smile melted the moment she turned and a fleeting hint of annoyance crossed her face like a cloud before the sun.

  "Brooke, I need to talk to you," I called, hurrying toward her.

  "No time," came the curt reply as she turned on her heel and marched up the path toward the cabins.

  Undeterred, I jogged to catch up and fell in step beside her. "It's about Nell," I said.

  "Who's Nell," she demanded, breaking stride to shoot me a pained look.

  "One of Ritz's kittens. She's sort of adopted Dudley."

  "Oh yeah," she said, a smile tickling the corners of her mouth despite her best efforts. "I've noticed."

  Encouraged, I pushed forward. "Matt and I were wondering if we could make the arrangement permanent?"

  "You want another cat?"

  "The Dudster seems to."

  "Sure. Why not? She's old enough."

  "What will you do with the others?" I asked, liking the way this neutral topic seemed to relax Brooke's resistance.

  "Ship them up to the stable, as soon as they're fixed."

  "You're going to have the whole litter done?'

  "Absolutely," she said. Her sidelong glance inferred I was an idiot to think otherwise. "There'd be a population explosion if we didn't. Ritz got out one night and look what happened. She's headed to the vet too. Should have done it long ago."

  "But you've got lots of room. Why worry?" I asked, remembering the semi-tame barn cats of my childhood. They were a standard feature of life.

  "Because our barn cats come from the S.P.C.A.," she countered. "Whenever they get overloaded, we take a few off their hands. It's criminal the way people let their cats have kittens then bundle the whole lot down to the shelter. Scores of them there at a time, no way to find homes for so many."

  I knew this to be true. Dudley was a Humane Society cat himself. "Well good for you," I said with feeling. How typical of the Brooke I used to know. "Anyway, we promise to get Nell spayed and you know she'll have a good home."

  "Of course, she will," my friend replied, her tone now fully thawed. "You can bring her up here after lunch. That's your cabin at the end of the line." She pointed toward a handsome new structure with a carved sign swinging beneath the roof of an inviting porch. "Arbutus," it read.

  Like the other cabins we'd passed, ours was named for a species of evergreen.

  "Thanks Brooke, I know kittens aren't high on your list of priorities right now."

  "No," she sighed. "They're not."

  Brooke paused and silence stretched between us as I
waited for her to decide. Was this a ceasefire or merely a temporary truce? She eyed me speculatively. "Want to take a walk?"

  I nodded gratefully. The war was over.

  "Let's go down by the lake."

  "Terrific."

  We walked in step, bathed in the warmth of spring sunshine.

  "About last night," I began, after casting around for a suitable opening, "I didn't mean to pry. I was just worried about you."

  Brooke allowed as how she knew that and apologised for the way she'd been acting. We talked for a while about her problems with Dan. She didn't tell me anything I hadn't already learned or guessed. The lodge was in trouble, so they were in trouble.

  "Have you thought of selling out?"

  "To some slimeball like Max Edelman?" she snapped. "Then what? Wind up like Kenny Legge? His parents built this place. But he couldn't hang on. Now he's just a hired hand, managing somebody else's dream. I don't want that for us, Taylor. I don't want that for Claire." She stopped and gazed across the diamond-crested waves. "We'll find a way to manage. A good summer season, that's all we need. A good summer season and then we'll be all right."

  I thought of the recently departed travel agents and wondered about their prospects. Fouled up bookings, mutilated hikes, and close encounters of the reptilian kind scarcely suggested the probability of glowing recommendations. It was hard to imagine such a lousy string of luck. Though luck had nothing to do with the attack on Reno. Someone had deliberately executed a well-planned operation. Had it been timed with the travel agents in mind? And if so, which of the other mishaps were more than they appeared?

  The discovery of the poached bear didn't seem a very likely candidate. After all, the carcass was some distance from the trail and it was only discovered because a hiker needed a rest stop. Pretty long odds on that all coming together, unless the travel agent was involved. But what about the booking disaster?